Musa
by V Tsuion
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a virtuoso - a brilliant violinist and composer. Dr. John Watson is merely an admirer, happy to be swept away from his comfortless and meaningless existence into the land of music, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony.


**I originally wrote this in 2014 with plans to turn it into a larger story. Four years later, this remains all that I have written of it, so I have decided to post it with a few minor edits as a stand-alone glimpse into this alternate universe.**

* * *

It was a dismal, chilly evening in London. The few who braved the weather bustled from place to place doubled over, their coats drawn tight around them. One such man, Dr. John Watson, hurried down a narrow street between pools of golden lamplight.

It was not an evening to be out of doors, but there was a concert that he wanted to attend. If nothing else, it promised to be better than spending the evening in the hotel, but he had heard good things about Mr. Sherlock Holmes - the man playing that evening. He was a British virtuoso, a brilliant musician and composer, who was in London for the month. So Dr. Watson ventured into the stormy evening.

He arrived at the concert hall with a few minutes to spare. Inside, it was warm, and cheerily lit. The howl of the wind was muted by the thick walls, though he could still hear its faint roar. He took a moment to relax in the comfort of the indoors before he presented his ticket and sat down among the meager crowd. Though he felt bad for the musicians who had braved the weather to play for so few people, he was happy to have his pick of seats.

He was just making himself comfortable, when the orchestra filed on stage. They were shortly followed by a tall, thin man with a violin. He was not conventionally handsome, with a hooked nose and bushy eye brows, but he carried himself with authority and a sort of powerful grace. There was a spark of the energy of youth and perhaps a little mischife in his sharp grey eyes.

He held his violin delicately as he readied it in the proper position. He surveyed the small audience with a sweeping glance, lingering for only an instant on each person. His eyes met Watson's for only an instant, but it felt like the virtuoso was peering into his very soul. But the moment soon passed and Mr. Holmes turned his intense gaze onto the conductor as he waited for the old man to finish shuffling about.

Finally, the conductor lifted his arms in a broad sweeping motion, and Mr. Holmes' eyes fell shut as he lowered his bow. His fingers flew as he drew the bow back and forth and back and forth across the strings with astounding speed. The music raced around him accompanied, not only by the orchestra, but also by the howling wind. It rose and fell, flitting from note to note at an extraordinary rate, faster and faster, sharp and powerful-

And then the orchestra fell. He pulled the stroke out into a haunting melody that echoed throughout the open hall. He swayed with every deliberate note. Watson found himself taking slow deep breaths in time with the music. His eyes nearly began to water with an emotion that was not quite sadness.

And then, just as he felt the first tear about to fall, the orchestra picked up again and the tune went with it, racing with extraordinary speed. But it did not lose its weight. Each note resonated with those around it as they all flowed together in a rushing river, propelled by the orchestra's hum and the primordial howl of the wind outside. It builded and builded upon itself, set his heart racing as it mounted towards the climax. Mr. Holmes bowed faster and faster in time with the music.

And then it stopped.

His grey eyes opened and he took a bow. His gaze meet Watson's once more, but this time his expression was softer with a certain air of abstraction.

As Watson only later realized, throughout the entire concert, he did not once look away from Mr. Holmes, not until the violinist had left the stage.

Watson blinked himself back to reality and left the hall in a daze. He did not mind the wind around him as he returned to the hotel. It all felt so distant, his mind still holed away amidst the beautiful music with the extraordinary Mr. Holmes.

* * *

After that, Watson went to as many of Mr. Holmes' concerts as he could. Most of them had much larger audiences, but they still all felt personal, as if it were just him and the violinist. Some were haunting and sorrowful like that first evening, others were light and joyous, or powerful and triumphant, or quiet and thoughtful. But each time the music swept him away and he was more and more reluctant to return to his comfortless and meaningless existence.

He dreaded the day when Mr. Holmes would move on from London.

One of Mr. Holmes' last concerts in the city came to an end. Watson watched as Mr. Holmes left the stage and the crowd began to stand. He forced himself from his seat and was contemplating his own departure when he glimpsed a hunched figure in an overcoat making his way towards a door backstage.

Watson hesitated. It was not his place to interfere. He had no authority any more - he was just another civilian. But he could see as plain as day that the man was up to no good.

It did not take him long to make up his mind. He ran after the man, pushing through the slow crowd. He ducked through the same door, into a narrow hallway lined with dressing rooms. Men in suits bustled back and forth, all chattering away about the night's concert, but he could not see the man he was pursuing among them. He waded through the chaos, searching and listening, but the man was gone. Watson knew he was not supposed to be back there. He was surprised he had gone this far unnoticed.

He'd begun to doubt his intuition and was about to turn around when he heard a shout from inside one of the far dressing rooms.

Watson didn't know what was going on, nor was he even certain that the shout had anything to do with the suspcious man he was chasing, but he knew he could not risk doing nothing. He rushed to the door and shoved it open. There he saw the man in the overcoat, a gun in hand, pointed at Mr. Holmes. Watson didn't even stop to think, he knocked the man to the ground and a gunshot rang out.

Mr. Holmes gave a shout of pain. But there was nothing Watson could do, not yet at least. He had to keep the man restrained or he would do even more damage.

Watson forced the gun from the man's hand as several men, mostly members of the ochestra, ran into the room.

They shouted among themselves as they pulled Watson off the assailant, took away the gun, and restrained him. Others helped the assailant to his feet. Watson could see him still glaring at Mr. Holmes.

"No! You've got it wrong!" Watson shouted, "He needs to see a doctor!"

But he went unheeded.

"Wait!" Mr. Holmes ordered as they were about to drag Watson off. The violinist was still on the ground, but he had maneuvered himself into a sitting position. His voice was surprisingly clear and authoritative for someone who had just been shot. "You are mistaken. It is Mr. Harding, here," - he motioned towards the man in the overcoat - "who made an attempt on my life. If not for the doctor you have so eagerly restrained, he would have likely succeeded. Would you be so kind as to release him and restrain Mr. Harding until the police arrive?"

They hesitated just long enough for the man – Mr. Harding – to turn and bolt towards the door. But it managed to kick them into motion. First one man who had been standing next to Mr. Harding lunged at him, and then the rest followed. Those who were holding Watson released him, and soon they had Mr. Harding restrained even more tightly for their initial error. They hauled him off and the room seemed to grow significantly with their departure, though a few men remained.

"Much better," Mr. Holmes remarked a little too casually to no one in particular, though Watson could tell he was in great pain - he had to be.

"May I?" Watson asked, motioning towards the injury.

Mr. Holmes nodded.

Watson knelt beside him and examined the wound. From a distance, it was clear that the Mr. Holmes's shoulder had been badly bloodied, but when Watson cleaned away the blood, he was relieved to find that the bullet had just grazed him, though it had left a nasty scratch. Still, it needed to be tended to quickly or risk infection.

"I need something to clean the wound," Watason snapped at the two men who were just standing there, watching with wide eyes, "Alcohol will do."

They hurried off and soon returned with a flask. He sent them for bandages as he cleaned the wound. When they finally returned again, he dressed the violinist's shoulder.

Once he was done, Mr. Holmes dismissed the remaining members of the orchestra who had been serving as Watson's assistants. Watson was about to follow them out the door, but Mr. Holmes held up a hand to detain him.

"I owe you my gratitude and very possibly my life," the violinist said with a hint of dark humor. "I still had a few tricks up my sleeve, but I'm afraid the odds were well against me."

Mr. Holmes did look badly worn. Aside from the bullet wound, he was banged up from a fight that must have occured before Watson entered the room. From a glance, Watson could tell nothing was broken, but it was certainly still painful.

Now that his duty as a doctor was done, Watson found himself at a loss for words. Though he had seen Mr. Holmes on stage countless times in the past three weeks, and at each concert their eyes had met and it had felt so intimate at the time, it was nothing like sitting face to face with the man himself. They had never truly met. Watson was just a lonely stranger, an admirer, and not one to compare with the many beautiful women who had cheered just as loudly at the end of Mr. Holmes's concerts.

The violinist stared at him with those intense grey eyes, made even brighter by the strain of his injury.

Finally, Watson remembered himself and stammered, "It was nothing. I'm just glad I made it in time. At first I was terrified the bullet had lodged itself in your shoulder, but I think you should be able to keep playing." Watson's rambling came to an abrupt stop as Mr. Holmes seemed ready to burst into laughter.

Mr. Holmes apologized, though he could not keep a bit of humor out of his voice, "I'm sorry, doctor, I shouldn't laugh. I was merely struck by how you were so fearless facing off against Mr. Harding though he was armed and ready to kill, but somehow I have managed to intimidate you. I assure you, there is no reason to be intimidated. You are an honest man and I am merely a musician who is indebted to you for your eager support. I don't believe I ever caught your name."

Mr. Holmes had seen him then, Watson realized. Their eyes had met durring all those concerts, but Watson had assumed the violinist wasn't really looking at him, that any moment of connection was just imagined. His heart seemed to jump in his chest.

Watson forced his voice level as he held out a shaky hand, "Dr. John Watson, at your service." He hesitated, but curiosity won out and he followed it up with a question. "What happened? What was that man, Mr. Harding, after?"

"I have enemies." Mr. Holmes answered as though it were nothing.

"That's rather extreme for a rival musician," Watson said, quite certain he was missing something.

"You could say I'm not an ordinary musician," Mr. Holmes said. There was a mischievous spark in his eye, despite the toll the incident had taken on him. "And I'd say you're not an ordinary doctor either. Afghanistan was it?"

"What? How did you know that?" Watson demanded.

Mr. Holmes smiled. "It's easier to know than to explain how I know. That you are a medical man is, of course, obvious. But you carry yourself like a military sort - an army doctor then. Your face is dark, but your wrists are fair, so you have come from the tropics. Something about you - an air, perhaps - tells me that you have undergone some hardship and sickness. Now, where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and got his arm wounded? Clearly in Afghanistan." He spoke with a certain showmanship and concluded triumphant, though a short-lived wince diminished the effect a little.

Still, Watson could not help but exclaim, "Extraordinary!"

"Commonplace," Mr. Holmes replied, though his smug expression said otherwise. "That turn for deduction - as I call it - is what earned me my share of enemies. Every so often someone will come to me with a problem they want solved, and I solve it - on the side, of course. Usually, I just have to hear the case, but sometimes there is something that requires more active involvement, and I take care of it, when I have the time."

"How do you have the time?" Watson replied, amazed.

"It is merely a hobby of mine." Mr. Holmes waved it off.

Watson was at a loss for words and all too quickly a silence fell. It was probably time he take his leave – he had intruded on the musician for long enough – but he could not bring himself to go.

When Watson's sense of propriety had nearly overcome his loneliness, Mr. Holmes said at last, "Dr. Watson, I take it you are in need of employment?"

Watson sighed. "Yes. One could say that I am still adjusting to civilian life."

"You are clearly good at what you do," Mr. Holmes said. "Unfortunately, this is not a terribly unusual condition you have found me in. I could use a personal physician. Your medical knowledge might also come in handy with some of my cases, and if I am preoccupied, you could also tend to some of the leg-work for me, if you would be willing. It would entail quite a bit of traveling, but you do not seem to be particularly tied down." He gained steam as he went on.

Watson looked at him in surprise, "I-I would be honored…"

Mr. Holmes smiled, "It's settled then. The flat I'm staying in for my time in London happens to have an extra room, if you could move in there as soon as possible. You travel light?"

"Being deployed does not lend itself to excess," Watson answered

Mr. Holmes nodded and began to stand.

Watson quickly moved to help him, "I take it my first duty is to get you home?"

"Yes." Mr. Holmes said with a nod, "I fear I may not be able to manage it alone."


End file.
